Fixity of Vision
by two-minutes-for-slashing
Summary: [Fulton-Portman SLASH] Why doesn't Fulton ever look at Portman when they shower together? Sequel to "Plainer to My Sight" by Caroline Crane; posted with her permission.


Rating: R  

Pairing: Fulton/Portman

Chapter: 1/1 (or 2/2, depending on how you look at it; see Disclaimer below)

Disclaimer: This is not true, unfortunately; and I don't own Fulton, Portman, or the Mighty Ducks (also unfortunately).  

**The concept, plot, and dialogue aren't mine either; they belong to the wonderful Caroline Crane.  She wrote an amazing story from ****Fulton****'s POV called "Plainer to My Sight", which can be found on her website, Desiderium Caritas. If you click on my name at the top of this page, you will get to my profile, where I have successfully posted a link to Caroline's story.  **

I tried to post a link to her website here but it won't let me type in any URLs.  You can also enter the URL for livejournal, then slash users slash carolinecrane, and follow the links to Desiderium Caritas and Fulton/Portman fics. Sorry for the confusion. Anyhow, I loved her story so much I decided to write a sequel telling the same story from Portman's POV, and Caroline has kindly given me permission to post my version, which, as I said above, incorporates her concept, plot, and dialogue.  Please read her story as well – it's absolutely breathtaking.

**Fixity of Vision**

by Two Minutes For Slashing

Dean Portman had a plan.  Actually, he'd had a few plans.  His first plan, after the Goodwill Games, had been to go home to Chicago, to his old life and his old friends, and forget about Fulton Reed.  Sure, that meant forgetting about the best friend he'd ever had, which hurt to even think about, but Portman had to think about it.  Had to _do_ it, because it was the only way to forget all the other stuff that he _did_ need to forget, like how much he wanted to run his hands through Fulton's silky black hair, or how often he wondered what it would feel like to kiss Fulton's perfectly rounded lips.  Forgetting about his best friend was the only way to _stay_ friends, Portman figured, because if he spent much more time around Fulton he was going to do something awful, like kiss him, or god forbid say something mushy, and then what would happen?  Portman could never decide if Fulton would beat the shit out of him or just never speak to him again, but either way, Fulton would hate him, and Portman knew he couldn't handle that.

So when he was offered a scholarship to Eden Hall, with Fulton and the rest of the Ducks, it wasn't too hard for Portman to say no.  It wasn't hard at all, at first.  Except that the more time went by, the  harder it got.  The thing was, he _couldn't_ forget Fulton.  He thought about him all the time, and he couldn't stop.  And he started wondering if being away from Fulton but not being able to think of anything but him was really any worse than it would be to be around Fulton and not be able to show him how he really felt.  

At least if they were together, they could be friends.  And even though Portman knew that wasn't anywhere near enough, that it might in fact kill him, he thought maybe it would still be better.  Better than just sitting around not forgetting Fulton, and missing him like crazy, and not knowing what else to do.

Portman had gotten about this far in his thoughts by the time Bombay came to Chicago to see him, so it didn't take much persuading for him to change his mind and accept the scholarship after all.  So much for Plan A.

Plan B, which he formulated on the plane and put into effect the moment he set foot on the Eden Hall campus – well, okay, right after the whole stripping-in-the-penalty-box thing; he had to admit he got a little carried away there - is simple too: forget all the other stuff he shouldn't be thinking about his best friend, and just be friends.  And for a while, that plan seems to be working.  He doesn't kiss Fulton, doesn't say anything dangerous, and he folds his hands into fists whenever they want to touch Fulton's hair, or stroke his smooth, pale skin, or clasp his strong fingers.  

The only thing Portman can't stop doing is watching him.  He steals glances of Fulton during games, and practices, and in the three classes they have together, and when they're in their room together.  And whenever he can, like when Fulton's sleeping, or lost deep in his latest book, or lately – since Coach Orion has them running extra drills after practice – when they're alone in the shower together, he doesn't just steal glances, he drinks in the sight.  

At first it seems too dangerous, especially in the shower: if Portman stares at Fulton too long under such circumstances, he knows he'll end up giving him one hell of a public display of his affections.

But the thing is, it isn't as dangerous as it seems, because Fulton never looks back.  He always takes the shower farthest away from Portman, and he always closes his eyes, or stares at the walls, or the floor – anywhere but at Portman, even while he's talking (Portman knows this for a fact because he has talked to Fulton exactly twice in the shower).  

So, really, it's safe.  Well, safe in the sense that Fulton won't catch him staring, but not safe in a lot of other ways.  It especially isn't safe because Portman knows if he stares long enough, at the muscles rippling on Fulton's shoulders as he soaps his chest, or the maddeningly sensual way he runs his hands through his glistening wet hair, then one day he won't be able to hold back any more.  Hold back from making a pass at his best friend.

But for all his worries, Portman can't stop doing it. So he stares, and feels more or less safe about staring, and wonders why it should be safe.  Why _doesn't_ Fulton ever look at him?  Portman wonders about that for days.  Sure, Fulton looks at him _sometimes_, like when they talk about music, or movies; and once Portman had nodded off lying sideways on his bed trying to read some boring novel for English class, and had awakened to find Fulton sitting on his own bed staring at him.  Not doing anything else, just sitting there looking at Portman, and when he realized Portman had opened his eyes and was looking back at him, Fulton had jumped up and run out of the room, muttering something about being late to meet Charlie.  

He wonders about that, and about why Fulton had rushed out of the room so quickly, but not before Portman had seen that he was blushing.  And he wonders why Fulton particularly never looks at him when they're getting dressed, or undressed, or especially when they shower together after their extra drills.  

And finally, after a whole week of watching and wondering, Portman thinks maybe he's figured it out.  And he thinks maybe it's time for a new plan.  

Portman takes a deep breath, withdrawing silently from the doorway, where he's been listening to Coach Orion's phone conversation.  Orion's got plans; he's on his way out the door.  Which means it's finally time for Plan C, which Portman's been waiting on for three extra practices now.  Twice he couldn't do it because Orion hung around after, doing paperwork in his office, and the other time might have worked, only Portman will never know for sure, because he lost his nerve. 

Which he's not sure won't happen this time too.  After all, if he's wrong about this, he's not just going to make an ass of himself, he's going to lose his best friend.  Portman hurries to the showers, strips his gear off with shaking hands, turns one set of taps on, and steps into soothing steam.

He wonders what's taking Fulton so long.  Granted he hadn't run for the showers as Portman himself had (well, by way of Orion's office), not even bothering to peel off his sweaty gear until he got to the shower room, but still, Fulton should be there by now.  Portman has already washed his hair twice and his whole body three times.  Maybe Fulton knows, he thinks, pressing his hot and trembling forehead against the cool, smooth tile.  Knows what he's planning to do, if Fulton ever comes, and if Portman doesn't lose his nerve.  Again.

When Fulton finally does show, he avoids Portman's gaze and heads for the shower farthest from him.  Portman watches him over the shoulder he's lathering for the fifth time; sees that Fulton is staring at the blue tiles in front of him like they're the best movie he's ever seen, and how his whole face is blushing – which is odd because he's not under the hot water yet.  Then Fulton slides under the shower head, turns around – his eyes are already closed – and Portman takes in the flakes of pink on the tips of his tiny, back-tilted ears, the tension in his broad shoulders.  Portman takes a deep breath, dropping the soap and stepping out from under the flow of suddenly too-hot water.  This is it.

"Hey, man," he says, and is startled by the sound of his own voice; "You're gonna drown if you stand there with your mouth open like that." 

Portman watches as Fulton blushes deeper and rubs water out of his eyes.  

"What?" Fulton says, and looks at Portman.  Looks at him for the first time ever in the shower, as far as Portman can tell.  His stomach lurches when Fulton's hazel eyes meet his own, and he realizes dimly that his mouth has twisted into a nervous shape that probably looks like a smirk, but he can't make it stop.  

Fulton turns away, grabs a bar of soap and starts washing himself, and Portman, both relieved and alarmed at losing the eye contact, blurts: "You looked pretty good out there today." 

"What?"  Fulton says again, and every time he says that Portman can't stop smirking, and he doesn't know why.

"I said you looked good out there today," he says again.

"Orion didn't think so."

"Fuck him," Portman scowls, distracted from his plan for a moment by this reminder of Orion's unfair judgment.  Fulton skated his ass off that practice, like he did every practice, like he did every game; and Orion was dumber than he looked if he couldn't see that Fulton, maybe even more than Charlie, was the heart of the team. "What's his problem, anyway?" 

Then the bottom drops out of Portman's stomach as Fulton runs his hands through his hair again.  Portman has no idea how something so simple can be so sexy, but it's the hottest thing he's ever seen, and he can feel himself getting hard as he watches.  

Fulton finally answers the question Portman has forgotten he'd asked; "Beats me,"  he says softly, and reaches for the soap again. __

Fulton starts washing his back.  Portman opens his mouth, without the slightest idea what's going to come out, and hears himself say, "You want some help with that?" 

Portman can't breathe, and entire millenia grind painfully by as he watches Fulton turn slowly to face him.  He sees Fulton glance down, take in the fact of Portman's erection, which is painfully hard; watches Fulton's cheeks shade even deeper into pink as he absorbs this development.  

Portman glances down as well, sees that Fulton is rapidly becoming aroused himself, and finally remembers to breathe, through the smirk that still seems to be stuck on his face.

"Dude, what…?" Fulton stammers.

"It's no big deal," and Portman manages to shrug, as if he's not absolutely terrified; "Looks like we're in the same boat, is all." And they are, only what is he supposed to do now?  It looks like his plan is working, only at this point in the plan Fulton should have either kissed him, or punched him.  He doesn't look like he's going to punch Portman, but he doesn't look like he's going to kiss him either.  Fulton is just standing there talking.  

"Since when do you like guys?" Fulton's voice is shaky, and for the first time it occurs to Portman that Fulton might be just as nervous as he is.   And with this realization, he finds the courage to close the distance between them.

"You know what, Fulton?" he says softly.

"No," and now, Fulton is looking right at Portman, or more than that: right into him.

"You talk too much." 

Fulton opens his mouth again, as if to illustrate this point, but Portman is already kissing him, finally kissing him, and Fulton's lips are even softer than he thought they would be.  

And then, thank god, Fulton kisses him back.  Portman slides a hand through Fulton's hair, wrapping the other around his waist.  Their hard cocks bump together and already he's not sure how long he'll last.

Fulton pulls back, and Portman tightens his fingers on Fulton's hips, afraid for a moment he's changing his mind, getting ready to tell Portman they're making a mistake, that he's not into guys after all, no matter what the hard cock pressing against Portman's own seems to suggest. "What if Coach…?" 

"He had to go pick up his kid," Portman says; "I heard him on the phone." He sees nervousness but not fear, not rejection in Fulton's eyes, and leans in to kiss him again, nearly unable to think past the white-hot desire burning through his nerves.  He licks Fulton's neck, and when Fulton moans he knows what he wants to do.

"Turn around," Portman pants; he can't breathe under Fulton's smoldering gaze.

Fulton nods, and turns around, bracing himself against the wall.  Portman presses himself against Fulton's back; Fulton shifts a little as Portman's cock pushes between his ass cheeks and Portman moans at the sensation.  He's never done this with anyone before, didn't know it would feel this good even without being inside.  Portman knows there isn't time for that even if he wants to, or if Fulton wants him to – and god, the thought that Fulton might want Portman's cock inside him is almost too much for him to handle - because he's going to come soon, just from this.  

He slides one hand around Fulton's waist, fingers splayed on Fulton's soft white skin, and closes the other hand around Fulton's cock. They move together; and there is nothing in the  world any more but the feel of Fulton's hard muscles holding him up, and Fulton's hard cock in his hand, and the sound of running water not quite masking Fulton's shuddery gasps and Portman's own moans.  

Portman brushes his fingers over Fulton's nipple; and moans as Fulton shudders and his whole body clenches. Fulton squeezes him again, and Portman gasps, thrusting harder, no rhythm left.

Then Fulton moans, whole body shuddering against Portman's chest, and Portman feels a new wetness on his fingers, warmer and softer than the water.  He wonders how it would taste, imagines bringing his fingers up to his mouth over Fulton's shoulder, and with that thought suddenly he's coming too, thrusting wildly against Fulton's firm ass.  

As his breathing slows, Portman realizes he is draped heavily over Fulton, who hasn't moved, although he must be getting sore holding them both up: Portman can feel Fulton's shoulder trembling under his chin.  He leans back slightly, taking some of his weight off the other boy, and runs a tentative hand up Fulton's chest.  

He's not sure what happens next.  He wishes he hadn't asked Fulton to turn around, because now he can't see the expression on his face.  Portman can't tell from Fulton's hunched shoulders or the angle of his head if he's glad or sorry or ashamed, and he desperately needs to know.  Because he needs to know if this is ever going to happen again.  

Then Fulton moves, reaching up to grasp Portman's forearms, and he tenses, but Fulton only draws him gently around to face him, and Portman doesn't see anything that looks like regret in Fulton's face.  

He relaxes, leaning back against the wall.  "Coach doesn't know what he's talking about," and Portman is vaguely aware that he's grinning in relief. "You've got great moves."  Fulton laughs, his eyes meeting Portman's easily, and Portman knows everything is going to be fine.  

He pulls Fulton close and kisses him.  He's surprised all over again at the softness of his lips, wonders if someday he'll be used to it and it won't surprise him any more - and a thrill rushes through his stomach at the thought.  At the thought of doing this again, and again, until they are as familiar to each other in this new way as they are in everything else they do together.

Portman runs his hands over Fulton's ass, because he can, and as Fulton moans against his mouth, Portman decides Plan C was a success.  

In fact, he thinks he might have to try it again next practice.


End file.
